“Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I run outside, cutting around and stopping him in his tracks with a palm pressed firmly on his…on his… Damn. His chest is hard. And warm and—Suddenly my skin feels hot and hypersensitive. My lungs can’t quite grab enough oxygen. “I-I want my wish.”
“Your wish is against the rules,” he growls.
“How so?”
“It can’t involve anyone else. It must be for you and you alone.”
“Ha!” I hold up a finger. “But it is for me and me alone.”
“It involves another person—me—and the answer is no.” For a second time, he tries to step around, forcing me to once again touch his firm, manly chest. I’m not crying about it. Especially because his body is so incredibly solid and I’ve never touched a man like him before, let alone seen one in the wild.
“I know my wish involves you, but how can that be against your rules when the same holds true for every wish? It’s the nature of this arrangement, is it not? Someone wishes; you grant the wish. Ergo, your involvement is obligatory.”
His eyes narrow with irritation. He knows I’m right. He hates it, but he knows.
“Sorry. No.” This time he successfully sidesteps me and heads to his car sitting curbside.
“So that’s it? You’re just brushing me off?” I yell. “Guess you’re not the real deal, then, Mr. Wish. I should’ve known you’re just some sadistic con man who gets sad, brokenhearted women’s hopes up, makes them believe their lives are about to change, and then you walk away, leaving them worse off than when you found them. You’re a real humanitarian!”
He stops at the driver’s side door and glares at me over the top of his car. “Who said I wanted to be?”
“Then what’s all this for? Why run around pretending to be some modern-day genie?”
“I pretend nothing. I claim to be nothing.”
“Then?” He still hasn’t answered my question, and now I feel like an angry dog with a bone. I want answers.
He doesn’t speak, but the tight jaw tells me he’s mulling. Pissed, but mulling.
“Just tell me what’s so wrong about my wish?” I throw my arms to my sides.
“You’re playing games. I don’t like games.”
Oh, that’s rich coming from him! “My wish was completely honest and real; I genuinely don’t know what would make me happy. I thought it was my ex. I thought it was loving him and making a home for us. I thought it was helping him live his dream and loaning him my last dime. But I was wrong. I ended up a miserable mess, and even if he gave me back all of my savings, which he refuses to do, it wouldn’t change a thing. I still wouldn’t be happy because he completely fucked me over, and money won’t change that. It won’t heal me or teach me how to love again or give me peace. So that’s my wish: You fucking tell me what to wish for. I wish for you to pick something that’ll change my life and restore my trust in people, because I sure as hell don’t know what that is.” Why am I telling him all this? These are things I’ve never even admitted to myself. Still, a part of me feels lighter, like a huge burden’s been lifted. The other part feels heavier because it knows what I’ve told him isn’t quite the truth. No, I don’t know what would make me happy again, but I do know what I secretly wish for. I’m simply not ready to admit it.
He lowers his head and gives it a slow shake, muttering something I can’t quite hear.
“I just want to find happiness. Please?” I can’t believe I’m standing here begging him, but I am. There’s a little spark inside me, urging me on. It wants this to be real. It wants to believe he can really grant wishes and fix my heart.
He lifts his head, those cool eyes drilling straight through me. There’s so much emotion stirring behind them that it sends chills down my spine.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then snaps his lips shut. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s in his car, driving away.
“What the…?” That little spark dies with a sputter. I’d say I’m pissed, but it’s more than that. I feel humiliated. I opened up to him and said things I haven’t said to anyone. Not even Vi. And he didn’t even give a damn.
My face flushes with anger, and I walk to the middle of the street to watch his sleek black car fade off in the distance, like a hearse carrying away my little spark. I can barely make out the letters on his plates, but I think it says Mr. Wish.
“More like Mr. Disappointment!” And now I can’t help feeling like a total idiot. Not only are my neighbors across the street staring, but I should have just wished for the money. At least I could have paid off my bills and—No. Never mind. I hate the idea of a stranger giving me a handout.